Chapter 3 #2
Ravenna swooped down to their cheeks but froze when her mother flinched.
“I didn’t mean it,” Mamma said quickly. Her eyes turned pleading. “I didn’t.”
She had, though. It had been instinctive.
A hot blush stole over Ravenna’s cheeks.
Her eyes burned. She would not cry in front of them; they felt bad enough already and she would give them this small mercy.
The cathedral bell tolled, loud and thundering like a winter storm.
Ravenna glanced at the door. “I’m late.”
“I’ll be there, Ravenna,” Mamma whispered.
Papà reached for her mother’s hand. “Me too.”
Terror formed a hard lump at the back of Ravenna’s throat. She forced a smile and nodded. “Tonight we’ll all be eating together at the table. Everything will be fine.”
Everything was not fine.
Swollen gray clouds hung above the crowded Piazza dei Priori, threatening a dramatic downpour.
Ravenna tilted her head upward, lips twisting.
She had taken pains with her hair, twisting the braided mass high at the crown of her head, and curling some of the strands where they could artfully graze her cheekbones just so.
The people of Volterra paid attention to the quality of the cloth that you wore, and so Ravenna had dug out her finest gown from within her trunk, a dress she only wore for Easter service.
It covered her from the neck to her wrists, and down to her ankles.
The fabric had come from Florence, a luxurious velvet dyed in a soft blue that reminded her of quiet early mornings and a mug filled with lavender-infused water.
Gold thread adorned the neckline in ornate swirls and loops and flowers she had sewn herself.
Ravenna wrapped her woolen cloak closer to her body, fighting a shiver as she pulled the wagon carrying her bozzetto toward the long wooden tables situated in the middle of the piazza, already crammed with other figurines.
Her creation would survive the rain, but the cold wind was snapping at her edges, aiming for flesh.
Antonio hung above the rows of tables, his cage swaying. He wrapped his hands around the bars and peered down at her, his mouth set in a mulish line. She gave him a smile, but he didn’t return it. Even from where she stood, she could read his expression.
Hope and terror and exasperation. And beneath all that, a simmering anger, at himself for getting caught, at her for trying to fix him, at the Medici for what they did, at the whole universe for its cruelty.
I can handle Antonio, Ravenna thought.
She just had to win his freedom first.
Her parents didn’t like it when she behaved unexpectedly.
They feared her loss of control because it might unleash her deadly magic.
It had taken her many years to recognize when she was near her breaking point.
It was a riotous feeling clamoring within her, demanding she act and act immediately.
A moment when the scales tipped and her magic burst out of her, through the tips of her fingers.
The only way to prevent it was to control her emotions, and to do that, she needed time.
Her gaze skittered around the square, taking in the robust crowd.
It had never seen so many people in the history of Volterra, she was sure of it.
It was lined on all four sides by honey-colored stone buildings, and from one end to the other, members of various guilds huddled in their respective communities.
She found an unoccupied section at one of the tables, small and near the edge, and pulled the wagon alongside it. When she placed her uncovered Pluto onto the surface, the artists flanking her looked at the bozzetto, and then to Ravenna.
They wore mirrored expressions of incredulity.
Her palms dampened, but her hands remained steady. She was a creature who had made her life in the shadows, existing in the background, where her parents wanted her. Standing out in the sunlight always unnerved her.
“Who made this work?” one of them asked.
“I did, signore.” She raised her chin, kept her eyes level to his. There was nothing written against her participating in the competition. She had every right to be there.
“I know this child,” the other said. “You are the innkeeper’s daughter.”
“I am the daughter of Gherardo di Giovanni Maffei,” she said evenly. “Basilia Maffei, my aunt, began my training when I turned thirteen.”
Her answer spread up and down the table, and gathered speed until the rest of the townsfolk caught on that the respectable innkeeper’s daughter dared to compete alongside the men.
The rest of the participants openly glared at her and at her creation.
When they saw the Nightflame embedded in the marble, there were more mutterings, more uneasy exclamations.
They inched away from her as if she were a leper.
Some booed and hissed, others spat in her direction.
Ravenna ignored the whirlwind of disapproval swirling around her.
Instead she forced herself to gauge her chances of winning. There were many figurines on display, each with its own particular charm.
Impostor, the figurines all seemed to whisper.
Her stomach tightened into an intractable knot. Ravenna turned away from the table, eager for something to do.
She didn’t have to look far.
The damned Bodone family huddled off to the side of the pulsing crowd, separate and unwelcome.
A month had passed since they’d been excommunicated, and since then no one welcomed them on their doorstep, least of all the Church.
It had all begun when Signor Bodone got drunk one evening and shared his thoughts about His Holiness.
Specifically about the pope’s miraculously long life.
Up and down the peninsula, His Holiness was worshipped, but there were others who wouldn’t drop to their knees before him.
They whispered of unnatural magic, a mark of the Devil himself.
Signor Bodone was convinced there was dark magic involved, and he tried to persuade the other tavern patrons to his line of thinking.
In Volterra, everyone was always taking sides over one thing or another.
Unfortunately for Signor Bodone, most people believed God had blessed the pope with a long life, like he had done with Abraham and Noah.
No one could argue against scripture, not even someone as well-connected as Signor Bodone.
Word reached the pope and his retaliation came quickly.
Together as a family the Bodones were forbidden from being buried in the church cemetery or even given their last rites. And now their friends had turned against them; their reputation lower than wet mud filled with wriggling worms.
It was humiliating and degrading.
It was as good as a death sentence.
Anyone associating with them would be painted with the same tainted brush.
The scales rattled within Ravenna now. She walked toward them, conscious of the crowd’s stares. But she didn’t care; she was sick of seeing the children shivering in the cold, sick of the way their parents hovered around them, despairing.
It was no way to live and she couldn’t look away.
One child looked at Ravenna, somehow knowing she had come to help. A little smile broke over her thin face, and it was that smile that ushered Ravenna forward. She dropped to her knees in front of the girl and pressed a handful of coins into her dirty hands.
“Don’t take it,” Signor Bodone said. “Leave us be, heretic.”
Ravenna flinched. “But you need the money.”
Signor Bodone spat at her feet. “Not from the likes of you.”
His wife clutched at her daughter’s shoulders. Her tone was kinder, but firm. “Please, you are only making our situation worse.”
Ravenna turned away, eyes burning. Doubt coursed through her, making it hard to breathe.
Her parents had been right. If she didn’t win, the people in the city would come for her, would come for her family and their inn.
The crowd parted before her, unwilling to let even the hem of her gown brush against their shoes.
Ravenna ignored them as best she could.
She must win.
Ravenna held back her shoulders, keeping her spine straight, and made her way back to the presentation table.
More townsfolk gathered, not out of interest in the art displayed, but in the hope of catching a glimpse of the immortal family deigning to visit their city.
Necks were craning left to right, children ran around their parents’ knees, turning the day’s event into a game.
Who would spot the first glimpse of a lavish jacket sleeve, gleaming buckle, or plumed hat?
A trumpet blasted, the piercing sound rising above the hush of conversation, and there were a few surprised shouts and some nervous laughter.
An older gentleman startled, waving his arms about as if ridding the air of flies, and Ravenna lunged forward to save her work from toppling over.
She glared at him, but he paid her no attention.
His weathered face was turned toward the archway lining the square.
The immortal family had arrived.